


Your Heart, My Castle (turreted and open to the sky)

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Category: We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson
Genre: Canon Compliant, Epilogue, Family, Gen, Post-Canon, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 04:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16569809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: In the aftermath of the fire, Merricat struggles to find a rhythm for her life with Constance.  Eventually a new routine establishes itself until it becomes an absolute pattern with all the edges worn off, like a water-polished river stone or a marble with a glorious, milky blue whorl in the center.





	Your Heart, My Castle (turreted and open to the sky)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suitablyskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitablyskippy/gifts).



Uncle Julian’s papers, Fragment 16, as dictated to Nurse Trenton and in her hand  
_Just to speak these scant sentences is agony, and yet, if I wait, I may lose a precious detail. We ate roast lamb that night, perfectly succulent with the lightest dusting of salt and heaping spoonfuls of Constance’s most excellent mint jelly. The blackberries were plump and juicy without the slightest trace of bitterness; they barely needed to be sugared. To think if I had the sweet tooth of Thomas!_

_I have not seen Mary Katherine in weeks. What is to become of her? Constance will likely be convicted of this atrocity, and I cannot see how anyone else could have done it though she does plead her innocence so persuasively. If she is convicted, dear Mary Katherine will be left to the mercy of the orphanage, and I know what happens in those places; she will surely die of neglect and loneliness, pining for her lost family._

In the aftermath of the fire, Merricat struggles to find a rhythm for her life with Constance. Eventually a new routine establishes itself until it becomes an absolute pattern with all the edges worn off, like a water-polished river stone or a marble with a glorious, milky blue whorl in the center.

They are happy living on the moon as Merricat knew they would be. They wake in the darkness of the kitchen and throw open the door; slowly, slowly as the sun comes up, the world gains color again—the bright honey of Constance’s hair, the vivid red and white of radishes in one of their three bowls, the delicious green of grass and other growing things in Constance’s garden. For a short time in the morning, they can leave the house and breathe fresh air. Constance can run her hands through the soil and over the roots of her plants; she can bruise stalks of rosemary between her fingers and nibble on sprigs of parsley as she gathers whatever has ripened. Rabbits scurry back into the woods when they hear Merricat coming, and Merricat stands forlornly at the edge of the garden and watches them bound away, wishing she could follow. But not for long. The creek is a small price to pay for their safety, and Merricat knows that everything precious comes at a price.

Constance is all dreamy smiles once more. She never mentions leaving, never says she would give everything to have them all back again, not even poor Uncle Julian. She only says, “You silly Merricat. Comb your hair,” and “Mind the cups in the drain,” and “I love you, Merricat. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

Uncle Julian’s Papers, Fragment 154, in his own spidery hand  
_Why would he always suggest we had eaten too much? I’m sure we never did. I’m sure Dorothy never did. That John could begrudge Dorothy a small helping of sausage with his own plate overflowing with pancakes and eggs and enough sausage for the three of us is painful to remember. I wish I had encouraged her to take just one more serving. Just one._

Life on the moon is as lovely as she had always imagined, but Merricat worries. Her magic wasn’t enough to keep Cousin Charles away; it was enough to expel him eventually, but not enough to deny him entry altogether. Her chest of silver dollars, her father’s book of debts, her magic words spoken into water and into air—none of these was powerful enough to prevent Cousin Charles from coming into their house and eating their food and sleeping in their father’s bed.

Cousin Charles looked like father sitting at the head of the table with his mouth full of Constance’s roasted carrots and not a word of thanks on his lips for Constance’s hard work, her gifts to them all. Oh, yes, just like father with his gold watch chain and his pockets turned out into a flat, enameled dish (surely he won’t miss a single silver dollar, not this once; not this once; not this once). He looked enough like father that Merricat thought of running to the summerhouse before she remembered it was barren and had been since that day six years ago.

Merricat had almost forgotten what father looked like, but Cousin Charles was his ghost, and he needed to be exorcised.

Now everything Cousin Charles touched is cleansed, burned away to nothing or else scrubbed until gleaming. The fire purified his taint, purged all the tendrils of the past he brought along with him. Merricat cannot regret the loss of their bedrooms or the attic or even the drawing room, not with the Dresden figurine to stand watch over the shattered glass and the wrecked harp and the ruined golden-legged chairs. The fire was necessary, but Merricat hopes it will never come to that again. Her magic of boards and nails must be strong enough to protect them this time, or else the remedy might be worse than the evil it banishes.

 

Uncle Julian’s Papers, Fragment 406, in his own spidery hand  
_That Dunham fellow has come to fix the step and is doing a worse job of it than any of us might, even me, weak as I am now. I think I could have repaired it myself quite easily before, but that time seems so long ago that maybe it never really existed. Maybe I have always sat in this chair dribbling soup onto my suit jacket._ [Indecipherable] _Dunham would never_ [Indecipherable] _John was alive. The villagers would do well to remember just who we are and who they are in relation to us. The name of Blackwood means something in this part of the country after all._

When their contact with the villagers is limited to offerings of roast chicken and pound cake, Merricat can hardly remember why she felt it necessary to invent them in their previous, hateful incarnation in the first place. Now that she no longer walks to the village on Tuesdays and Fridays, she cannot imagine the Donells and the Dunhams, the Elberts and the Harrises, employed in any occupation besides preparing their tribute to the Blackwood estate as is right, as is proper. Merricat can see them in her mind’s eye, and she can hear them talking in their kitchens as surely as she can hear Jonas’s stories.

“Do put in some of those blueberry muffins, Stella,” says Miss Dutton. “I believe Miss Constance Blackwood greatly enjoys blueberry muffins.”

Mrs. Dunham says, “And I’ll put some macaroni and cheese into the basket. I do hope they will taste the extra cream and butter and know how much I regret, how we all regret . . . Well, I do hope they can taste the extra richness.”

During the day, Merricat and Constance settle before their respective peepholes and watch the children play on the lawn. They watch couples walk down the path hand-in-hand and families picnic on top of brightly colored tablecloths. Merricat never recognizes any of them as belonging to the village. How could they when Merricat has created them expressly for Constance’s enjoyment? Let’s have two little girls in pink pinafores skipping rope, Merricat says to herself over a breakfast of buttery, thin pancakes, and there they are in the afternoon, their braids flying into the air as they jump, their ribbons streaming behind them. “That one has such a sweet collar on her shirt,” Constance says and sighs in happiness.

 

Uncle Julian’s Papers, Fragment 48, nearly unrecognizable as his penmanship  
_Why did she do such a thing? Why? What could she have wanted? What did she possibly hope to gain? How can I ever make sense of_

In the winter, Merricat and Constance sleep huddled together in Merricat’s corner on the mattress that still smells faintly of smoke. Merricat snuggles down into the pile of blankets and slides her cold feet between Constance’s calves. Jonas is a warm weight pressing into Merricat’s side. Here in the dark, colors build behind Merricat’s eyelids when she squinches them tightly shut, brilliant blues and reds and greens like the jewels in the rings on Mrs. Carrington’s fingers.

When they wake, Constance says, “Good morning, my Merricat.” She kisses Merricat on the head, scratches Jonas’s ears, and dresses in Uncle Julian’s trousers and his second-best shirt. She rolls up the sleeves and the trouser legs and cinches in her waist with one of Uncle Julian’s ties, the yellow with the blue paisleys. She tops it all with Uncle Julian’s overcoat which hangs to her knees. Merricat thinks she looks very fine indeed.

Constance opens the kitchen door, and the pearly gray light of dawn makes a rectangle on the floor that nearly reaches the table. Jonas races through her legs and out the door. Constance laughs and chases after him.

Merricat rakes her fingers through tangled hair and straightens her robe made of gingham tablecloth; she won’t need an overcoat which is fortunate because Uncle Julian only had the one. Merricat likes the winter cold, and she likes best of all to come inside from the winter cold and slowly thaw by the stove while Constance cooks them breakfast. Merricat washes her hands and face in the sink but only because she knows Constance likes to see her cheeks pink and well-scrubbed.

Merricat is about to follow Constance into the garden when she catches sight of the library books sitting pristine and untouched on their shelf: three cookbooks for Constance, Grimm’s fairytales, and the _Collected Stories of William Faulkner_. She runs her fingers down their spines, lingers a moment on the Faulkner, that old favorite, and thinks that maybe today she’ll finally read for a bit. She hasn’t curled up with Faulkner in a little more than six years after all. But the morning is short, and Merricat can’t say whether today will be the day or not. She feels no rush. They have all the time in the world.

From the doorway, Merricat watches Constance standing in the garden against the backdrop of the sunrise, the sky painted over in purple and gold, her face upturned to the light. “I’m coming, Constance!” Merricat cries, her voice ringing like music in the clear stillness of daybreak.

**Author's Note:**

> Given the similarities between the plot of the novel and Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," I was so pleased to see that the short story had been published in book format at such a time that 12 year old Merricat could have read it (if the novel is assumed to be set at the time it was published). I don't know how in character an affection for Faulkner is for a girl who loves fairy tales and history, but I couldn't resist indulging myself.


End file.
